


Action

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After filming the beach scene on Bad Wolf Bay, Billie has some concerns RE: their acting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Action

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my "Fic Fest" over on tumblr. The prompt was: "David/Billie, adult, around the time when they’re filming season 4 and the Tentoo/Rose kiss."

She's tracked sand into his trailer, the grains sticking to her shoes, her trousers; as they dry, they flake off and land on the carpet, glittering in the worn-down pile. There's a cooling paper cup of coffee in her hands and she turns it, clockwise, anti-clockwise, revealing the pink stain of lipstick on the rim. He's quiet – his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth – and he doesn't understand how he can feel completely comfortable sitting with her in silence, and like he's sweating through his clothes at the same time.

 

Billie takes a sip, grimaces at the temperature; he smirks and wonders if he should make an inane comment about waiting too long. But it wouldn't be inane, of course not. It'd be a pointed barb directed at himself – he knows, because he's made so many before, and he doesn't think she'd let it lie, the bitterness.

 

She places the cup on the half-table and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. David forgets sometimes how _normal_ she is – she pursues it sometimes with a single-mindedness he can't fathom.

 

'It was wrong,' Billie says, and his attention floats back to _her_ and not just thoughts of her. She's frowning, slightly, and her fingers whirl in the air, gesturing roughly outside. 'The kiss, I mean. _Completely_ off the mark.' She smiles a bit, shaking her head for emphasis. Blonde hair whips at her cheeks, her chin, begging to be brushed back.

 

A slow grin spreads across his face, and he ignores the way his pulse speeds up, just a little. Just enough to be distracting. Embarrassing, in someone his age. 'Oh, well, you're the expert, I'm sure,' he murmurs, he _baits_ , because this is what they do.

 

'Thought you didn't watch my show, _Ten-Inch_.' Billie enunciates his nickname clearly, teeth and tongue and her eyes dancing.

 

He frowns, dismisses her statement with a wave of his hand. 'Can't escape the commercials, can you? But enough about who'sbeen watching whose show – or _not_ , I meant to say not _._ ' He adds the last part quickly, but not quick enough: Billie bites her lip in amusement. '- and more about how rubbish I am at kissing.'

 

'Not rubbish,' she corrects. 'Just... don't you think it'd be different? After all that waiting? All that _wanting_?'

 

David thinks about how she'd yanked him down, scrambling to get close; how his arms had wrapped around her waist, and her hands had stroked his ear, the back of his neck. He thinks about her lips, hard against his, not moving, not parting. How he had clenched his fists, remembering they were on a set, that there was a dozen crew members around them, recording them, for a family television show.

 

His mouth is dry. He takes a sip from his glass of water, watching her watching him as he lowers it back down. 'How?' David croaks out, despite the coolness on his tongue, the way his lips feel wet. 'Different _how_?'

 

It's slow motion, the way she leans across, but he sees her in high-speed, the little details made _so_ sharp by how much he wants this: dark eyelashes and her wispy fringe falling over her face, falling out of her clip; the hint of her pink tongue, peeking out, licking, as she moves closer; whiskey brown irises and how they're glazed, already, and it's enough to make his own eyes shutter closed. David feels the press of her lips again, the hand that grasps his collar; he breathes out, suddenly, through his nose and she laughs a bit, and opens her mouth, slides it across his. 

 

It's the tip of her tongue darting out that does it, the brief contact that makes the clapperboard snap in his head. He grabs her, her shoulders, pulls her across the table – there's a muffled complaint as it digs into her ribs. He chases the taste of of bitter burnt coffee from her mouth, the taste of lipstick from her lips; he's determined to wipe away everything but _her._ Because this isn't acting (though the scene was set, the lighting perfect): it's them, David and Billie, snogging in his trailer. This is her hand brushing through his hair again, not sweetly, not gently, but pulling roughly, enough to make him groan, make him grow hard in his trousers, against his better judgement. This is his hand creeping up the front of her shirt, cupping her breast, and the way she trembles from it, shaking in his arms.

 

When she breaks, finally, she's dazed and pleased with herself. The sight of her, mouth red and open as she struggles to draw in air gives him a flush of self-satisfaction, too. And then she's pushing him back in the cramped dinette booth, her knees either side of his thighs, and he's _really_ glad she wants a second take.


End file.
